In the face of unimaginable suffering, Gaza teaches us that true faith, reliance on Allah, and collective responsibility are the path to justice and healing, until His divine command, “Be”, transforms the world
No matter how hard the rest of us Muslims try, we can never reach the level of faith that the Muslims of Gaza and Palestine hold.
I meant to say, where will we find such faith?
Where will we summon the kind of courage that stands unshaken even when bones have been shattered into dust, when every single vein in the body bleeds, when the face is no longer recognisable, and the limbs of the body lie scattered like broken pieces of a soul?
And yet from the throats of those crushed beings, from tongues dry with pain, still rises the whisper “Alhamdulillah.”
It doesn’t always come like a storm. It doesn’t always roar in the face of those who crush bones beneath tanks or cut off water from the mouths of children. Sometimes, Consequence watches quietly. It lets time breathe. It lets oppressors forget. And then one day perhaps in this world, perhaps in the next, the weight of every injustice returns, multiplied, precise.
This is Makafat-e-Amal.
Not a fable. Not folklore. But a sacred law of divine justice. A system inscribed by the One who sees every shiver of a starving child in Gaza, who hears the cry of every mother searching for bread, who records every missile that turned a cradle into a coffin. It is justice that sleeps not. It is God’s promise to the wounded: they will answer for this.
“Whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it, and whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Qur’an, 99:7–8)
Gaza bleeds again, and again, and the world, along with Arab nations, watches with dry eyes. The hospitals have no medicine, the wells are poisoned or bombed, the bakeries are rubble, and the streets echo with the hollow absence of those who once laughed there. But make no mistake. Every single act, every blockade that suffocated a child in her sleep, every sniper bullet that found a boy’s chest, every lie spread to justify their murder is written. And Allah forgets nothing.
We live in a world where oppressors walk freely, shaking hands in suits while their victims claw at rubble for the bodies of their loved ones. Where entire families are erased from civil records because their homes were flattened, their names too burned to be legible. Where children drink saltwater and learn to dodge bombs before they learn to read.
And yet, in the charred silence of Gaza, you can hear something miraculous. A whisper. Kun Fayakoon.
“Be.” And it is. (Qur’an, 36:82)
The same command that raised galaxies. The same breath that turned dust into soul. It echoes now in the resilience of a people who have every reason to collapse but instead stand, who still pray, still fast, and still hope. Despite every limb lost. Despite every grave dug with bare hands.
They are the living embodiment of sabr, not passivity, but divine endurance. And they do not wait for the world to save them. They wait for the justice of the One who Sees All. Who Counts Every Tear.
There is a kind of dignity in their suffering that humbles the privileged. A strength in their hunger that puts our abundance to shame. Gaza reminds us that life was never promised to be fair, but it was promised to be judged. And the weight of cruelty does not disappear into silence. It accumulates. It builds. Until one day, in the realm where Allah simply says “Be”, it returns.
I often think about those who commit these horrors, those who bomb refugee camps, who cut off electricity to incubators, who shoot journalists and then lie about it with cameras still rolling. They sleep in comfort. They laugh at podiums. They sign deals soaked in blood.
But Makafat-e-Amal is not mocked. They may escape earthly trials, but not divine truth. On the Day when nothing hides, when tongues are sealed and limbs testify, their deeds will rise in fire. The cries of Gaza’s orphans will be their witnesses. And justice will not be delayed.
Yet what tears me apart, what breaks me even more, is knowing that we, too, are not innocent. That our silence, our inaction, our distractions are complicity. That, as Gaza screamed, many of us scrolled past. That some turned away from images too painful to bear, forgetting that they did not have the luxury to look away. That some still debate both sides, while one side is buried beneath the other.
Makafat-e-Amal spares none. It humbles the loud. It shames the indifferent. And it asks of us: What will your ledger say? Did you raise your voice when others had theirs ripped away? Did you send even a small sadaqah when their homes were burned? Did you pray? Did you care?
Because you will be asked. “Beware of injustice,” said Prophet Muhammad (SAW), “for it will be darkness on the Day of Resurrection.”
Darkness. Not just for tyrants, but for those who watched in silence. For those who walked past suffering and called it political. Gaza is not a headline. It is a wound in the soul of this ummah. And Makafat-e-Amal means it will never go unanswered.
And yet even in the ash, even under siege, Gaza whispers kunfayakun. They teach us that even in ruin, there is purpose. Even in death, there is honour. That Allah has not abandoned them. That they are not forgotten. That while the world may dehumanise them, Heaven exalts them.
Gaza does not just suffer. Gaza teaches.
It teaches what surrender means. What reliance looks like. What it means to wake each morning to horror, and still say, Alhamdulillah. What it means to know that this world is broken, but the One who will restore it is not.
They are not victims. They are verses. Each of them has a proof. That hope survives missiles. That faith can stand where governments fall. That dignity is not dependent on borders or aid or media.
They are the breath still alive after everything tried to suffocate them.
And that breath says, Be.
So we keep going. With cracked hearts. With prayers still lodged in our throats. Justice in Allah’s Court is never denied. And if this world fails to serve it, the next surely will.
O Allah, say the word. For the children sleeping in graveyards. For the mothers giving birth in rubble. For the fathers who bury more than they can hold. For the thirsty. For the forgotten. For the martyred.
Say Be and let justice rise.
Say Be and let Gaza heal.
Say Be, and let us wake from this nightmare into a world where the oppressed are honoured and the tyrants fall.
Until then, we wait. In the silence. In the dark. In the ache. But not in despair.
Because He only has to say Be. And it will be. Darkness. Not just for tyrants, but for those who watched in silence. For those who walked past suffering and called it political. Gaza is not a headline. It is a wound in the soul of this ummah. And Makafat-e-Amal means it will never go unanswered.
And yet even in the ash, even under siege, Gaza whispers Kun Faya Kun. They teach us that even in ruin, there is purpose. Even in death, there is honour. That Allah has not abandoned them. That they are not forgotten. That while the world may dehumanise them, Heaven exalts them.
Gaza does not just suffer. Gaza teaches.
It teaches what surrender means. What reliance looks like. What it means to wake each morning to horror, and still say, Alhamdulillah. What it means to know that this world is broken, but the One who will restore it is not.
They are not victims. They are verses. Each of them has a proof. That hope survives missiles. That faith can stand where governments fall. That dignity is not dependent on borders or aid or media.
They are the breath still alive after everything tried to suffocate them.
And that breath says, Be.
So we keep going. With cracked hearts. With prayers still lodged in our throats. We weep, yes, but we do not despair. Because justice may be delayed, but it is never denied. And if this world fails to serve it, the next surely will.
O Allah, say the word. For the children sleeping in graveyards. For the mothers giving birth in rubble. For the fathers who bury more than they can hold. For the thirsty. For the forgotten. For the martyred.
Say Be and let justice rise.
Say Be and let Gaza heal.
Say Be and let us wake from this nightmare into a world where the oppressed are honoured and the tyrants fall.
Until then, we wait. In the silence. In the dark. In the ache. But not in despair.
Because He only has to say Be. And it will be.
Kamran Hamid Bhat
ka************@***il.com